“What a lovely place Sir Stephen has made of this, Mr. Orme,” said Lady Clansford; “we were quite startled as we drove up, and simply bewildered when we got inside.  This room is really—­oh well, I’m beggared for adjectives!”

Stafford went about, listening to the encomiums on his father or the house, and making appropriate responses; but he was rather relieved when the butler announced dinner.

The dining-room received its meed of praise from the guests, and the elaborate menu caused some of the men to beam with inward satisfaction.  It was a superb dinner, served with a stateliness which could not have been exceeded if royalty had been amongst the guests.  The plate was magnificent, the flowers arranged by an artist’s hand, in rich and yet chaste abundance.  Stafford, as he looked from the bottom of the table to Sir Stephen at the head, felt with a thrill of pride that his father was the most distinguished-looking man of them all; and he noticed that in the tone of both the men and the women who addressed him there was that subtle note which indicates respect and the consideration which men and women of the world pay to one who has achieved greatness.

And yet, he noticed also, that not one of them was more perfectly at his ease than Sir Stephen, who laughed and talked as if his only aim was that of enjoyment, and as if he had never “planned a plan or schemed a scheme.”  Every now and then Stafford caught his father’s eye, and each time he did so, Sir Stephen smiled at him with that air of pride and affection which he made no attempt to conceal or check.  Once or twice Howard, too, caught his eye and smiled significantly as if he were saying, “How is this for a successful party?”

The dinner went swimmingly, and when the ladies had retired Sir Stephen begged the men to close up, and passed the wine freely.  The talk was of everything but politics or business—­Stafford remarked that not a word was said of either topic; and Sir Stephen told one or two stories admirably and set the laughter going.

“What sort of a night is it, Stafford?” he asked, presently.

Stafford drew the curtain from the open French window, and the moonlight streamed in to fight with the electric lamps.

“Shall we go out on to the terrace?” said Sir Stephen.  “Quite warm enough, isn’t it?”

They went out; servants brought coffee and cigars, and some of the gentlemen sauntered up and down the terrace, and others went down into the garden.  Sir Stephen linked his arm in Stafford’s, and they walked a little apart along one of the smooth paths.

“Not bored, I hope, my boy?” he asked.

“Good gracious, no, sir!” replied Stafford.  “I don’t think I remember a more successful dinner.  Why should I be bored?”

“That’s all right!” said Sir Stephen, pressing his arm.  “I was afraid you might be.  They are not a bad set—­the men, I mean—­if you keep them off their hobbies; and we managed to do that, I think.”